by Simon Clark
‘Hey. Shine a light, boys.’ But for some reason they couldn’t hear the corporal. ‘You all gone deaf?’ Although only forty yards away, not one man showed any sign of hearing his shout. ‘They’re playing silly beggars,’ he said. ‘Just wait till I get back. I’ll roast their ears off.’
The corporal took a careful step towards the line of white posts that marked safely level ground. So far so good. He took another step. And another.
The next step robbed him of the earth beneath his foot. A hollow, or a rabbit hole. He managed a curse of irritation. Then he lost his balance and fell forward.
The weight of his body on top of the high-explosive shell slammed it down hard. His last impression, the curved cylinder smacking against his ribs. Then came the detonation. It cast his body parts for more than fifty yards. Blood joined the frost to paint the grass in the meadow, long streaks of red and white.
As the gun crew ran to get help from their comrades further along the cliff, six figures raced into this scene of gory devastation. The man’s blood had been widely dispersed, for sure, but they relished every sip of the red stuff.
Gradually, the sun rose over Whitby. The start of an extraordinary day.
Tuesday.
PART THREE
{Lady Catherine Fitzroy’s letter to her sister, December 15, 1851}
Such a barbaric act! The entire household is in clamour. You should see the expression on our dear Uncle’s face – for, as magistrate, he had to preside over the execution. I sincerely hope there are no more public hangings in Whitby. Even though the wretch was delivered to the gallows before sunrise, the townsfolk appeared en masse. They laughed and caroused as if it were a piece of theatre. They did not cease their vulgar merriment until the entire proceedings ended in disaster.
You see, a certain young man had been condemned to death for breaking into houses on the waterfront and biting the occupants. When the jailors brought him, hands firmly shackled, to the scaffold platform, the crowd all began to shout very loudly at once, ‘VAMPYRE! VAMPYRE!’ The very instant the priest asked him to accept Christ as his saviour he snarled with the ferocity of a demon. Well, the hangman placed the noose around the prisoner’s neck, and the fellow tried to bite his hand. After that, the hangman didn’t even try and hood the man. Instead, he pulled the trap lever. Down went the prisoner! The rope snapped tight! Often that kills instantly; you see, the neck is broken, indeed the wrench of the noose can often decapitate. Yet, the young man writhed at the end of the rope. Again, this may occur when a person is hanged. However, the death throes that produce that ‘dancing on air’ soon subside. Not in this case, dear sister. The hanged man writhed at the end of the rope. His feet kicked. The grimacing of his face made a number of ladies swoon fully away. Twenty minutes later, he appeared more vigorous in his bodily contortions than ever. He even freed his wrists from the manacles. Now there was a real danger he’d escape from the noose to unleash his fury on the crowd. Men and women fled back into town.
The cries they made! The panic!
That’s when Uncle ordered his men to unsheathe their sabres. Such a brutal aftermath. I withdrew to the carriage. But those shouts, my sister! Those screams! They’ll remain with me until my hour of dying. Later, I overheard the servants say that parts of the Vampyre still squirmed in the sacks, as they were cast into the sea. May God preserve us.
One
He bowled into the hotel with all the grandeur of a victorious general.
‘Good morning, Beth. Good morning Sally.’
Alec Reed had spotted the pair through the open doorway of the dining room, where they were eating breakfast. He marched through the doorway, sweeping off his broad-brimmed hat as he did so. The black eyepatch still covered the wounded eye. Today, enthusiasm roared through him, adding a decibel or so to his Scottish accent.
Beth found herself smelling the air for the tell-tale whiff of gin, a spirit that might account for his grandiose manner.
‘Any sign of the hotel staff?’ he boomed. ‘I’ve left my luggage in the doorway.’
‘Best bring it in yourself,’ Beth told him. ‘There’s only a staff of one, and I think the lady is with her brother.’
‘Any chance of a cup of tea? I’d swear all those hills and moors have been piled up round Whitby to keep outsiders from ever getting here. It took the trucks over an hour to cover ten miles.’
Beth poured him the tea. ‘So you’ve arrived with your battalion of film-makers? Add your own sugar, Alec.’
‘Isn’t it exciting?’ Sally scrunched her shoulders. ‘But how on earth are you going to get those trucks full of cameras and lights along this little street? You can hardly get a wheelbarrow down it.’
‘Thank Providence we did our research. The crew are staying in a guest house in the wonderfully named Boghall. There’s a secure yard for the vehicles, too. We can’t have those expensive cameras vanishing into the hills.’ Swishing his hat against his thigh to remove drops of moisture, he kicked a chair away from the table and sat down. ‘Ye Gods. We had to sleep in the trucks at Malton last night. The police wouldn’t let us cross the damn moor at night. I’m whacked.’ He took an interest in the breakfast plates. ‘Is that toast going spare?’
Sally beamed. ‘Help yourself. There’s the butter. I’m sure I can find eggs in the kitchen if you’d like—’
‘Don’t go usurping Eleanor’s role, Sally.’ Beth smiled as she spoke firmly. ‘I’m sure she won’t allow our esteemed film director to starve.’
He layered butter on the toast. ‘You’ve both settled in?’ He surged on without waiting for a reply. ‘Today’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Good. The cast will arrive a week today by train. They’re lodging here with us. Any luck in finding those shooting locations?’
‘Hardly. We only arrived here last night,’ Beth told him.
‘All locations have to be fixed by Thursday at the latest. By then, I’ll be having the cameraman shoot some establishing shots of the town. Mainly the picturesque stuff – harbour, churches, quaint taverns, cute bairns playing hopscotch. Any more tea? My throat’s become a veritable Sahara.’
‘Don’t worry, Alec.’ Beth’s voice hardened. ‘It’s all in hand.’
Sally added, ‘Eleanor’s kindly agreed to give us a tour of Whitby this morning. She knows some lovely places to film.’
‘I didn’t know Eleanor was on the payroll.’
‘She owns the hotel.’ Beth’s irritation grew. Alec Reed had become bombastic again. She sniffed for gin. ‘She’s also very nice and very helpful.’
‘Good. Because I need her to provide an office. I want access to a phone and a typewriter. The Ministry require a major change to the script. It seems our film of ordinary men and women being the heroic embodiment of the British bulldog spirit has become too ordinary for them. They want me to introduce a larger-than-life hero: a lifeboat man, who has to brave a storm in order to rescue passengers from a torpedoed ship. It will add five days to the shooting schedule. Thank goodness, the government are funding the overrun. Is that the last of the sugar?’ He emptied the remaining grains from the sugar pot into his cup.
‘Sugar’s rarer than pearls, remember? Along with just about everything else.’ Beth added, ‘You need to hand your ration book to Eleanor when you check in.’
‘You’ve just finished our day’s sugar ration.’ Sally grinned. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I want to keep off sugar. It goes straight to my waist.’
Alec leaned towards Beth as if about to kiss her. ‘Check for yourself.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yesterday, you accurately detected the whiff of mother’s ruin.’
‘It’s not my job to dry you out.’
‘But I shouldn’t be boozing at nine in the morning, even if it was medicinal.’ He touched the eyepatch.
‘How is it?’
‘The eye? Want to look for yourself?’
‘Ugh!’ Sally pulled a face. ‘Is it really bad?’
He raised his hand to the eyepatch,
as if to flip it up.
Beth dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘I suspect Alec is showing us our place in his team. He wants us to know that he is our lord and master.’ She stood up. ‘And he wants us to be afraid of him.’
Sally shuffled uncomfortably in the seat, knowing that the seeds of another argument had been planted. ‘Beth. We should be getting ready.’ The sound of a door shutting gave her another reason to divert the confrontation. ‘That must be Eleanor. Alec will have time to check into his room before we leave.’
As Sally stood up, so did Alec to give a polite bow. ‘Ladies. Thank you for your company. And I’ll see you get the sugar back.’
Sally laughed, relieved that the impending awkwardness had been avoided. ‘Oh, we’re sweet enough.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Come with me, I’ll introduce you to Eleanor. You’ll love her.’
‘Indeed?’
The pair left the room.
Sally laughed at everything Alec said, Beth realized. The same kind of giggle schoolgirls use when they have a crush on a teacher. She decided to wait for Sally so they could go up to their rooms together to collect their coats. For a while, she examined framed photographs on the walls. There were scenes of old-time Whitby: sailing ships in the harbour; a paddle-steamer being smashed to pieces on the rocks by enormous waves; lifeboat men wearing bulky cork lifebelts; women in long skirts, lugging baskets of freshly caught fish. Then there were pictures of the Leviathan Hotel as it was in years gone by. Beneath one, a date fixed it as having being taken on Christmas Day, 1921. Outside the front door, standing in a neat line, were four people. A middle-aged man and woman, and then probably the son and daughter. Beth studied the features of the young woman. Eleanor, it had to be – yet an Eleanor of twenty years ago. Those features were unmistakable. Her brother smiled broadly. He possessed a healthy robustness. In his hand, a fishing rod. No doubt a Christmas present that he’d insisted on displaying proudly.
Eleanor had told them that her brother suffered ill health. So, if this photograph of a strong, young buck full of vigour didn’t lie, then his sickness must have struck him down later. After she’d glanced at the other photographs (all ships with masts), she gazed out of the window. From the reception area came the deep rumble of Alec’s Scottish burr, mingled with Sally and Eleanor’s voices. Sally’s laugh would often rise above the others’ conversational tones.
This window didn’t open on to any grand vista, unlike her bedroom, which revealed the waterside hotel had perfect harbour views. All she could see from here was the small cobbled yard hemmed in by walls six feet high. Tucked in one corner, a little cottage in the same deep red-brick. Its frontage presented a door, two windows at ground level, then another pair of windows on the upper story. As her eyes alighted on the upstairs windows she noticed one had its curtain parted by just six inches or so. At that moment, a thin, weak-looking hand fumbled for the edge of the curtain. He can’t see it, she told herself. Eleanor’s brother must be blind. The poor man . . . and he looked so healthy in the photograph. That prolonged fumbling at the fabric, the long, pale fingers searching desperately for a fold to grasp, saddened her so much that a lump formed in her throat. She wondered if she should warn Eleanor that her brother might need help. However, after a moment’s scrabbling, he seized the fabric, then shut the curtain so quickly that she could almost feel his desperation to keep the world out of sight.
Sally appeared at the doorway. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘Sorry, I was just . . .’ Spying on Eleanor’s brother? ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘Get your scarf and gloves. It’s freezing.’ Sally clutched Beth’s arm as they headed for the staircase. ‘Our first day in Whitby. Can’t you just feel it in the air! Something really amazing is going to happen today. Just you wait and see.’
Two
At the reception desk, Eleanor handed Alec Reed a pen. ‘If you can sign the register, please, Mr Reed.’
‘Call me Alec, please.’
‘And I’m Eleanor. Ah, a left-hander, I see. An indication of artistic sensibility.’
Alec wrote his name in the book. ‘Your last guest before Beth and Sally signed in was two years ago.’
‘The war stopped people holidaying at the coast. They were afraid that Hitler’s Storm Troopers might come ashore here. So I decided to simply keep the front door locked until hostilities ended. I’ll get your cases.’
‘No bellboy?’
‘He’s on a minesweeper out in the Atlantic. And our chef is making his wonderful beef and ale stew for the garrison down in Portsmouth. Young men are hard to find in Whitby these days, Alec.’
He returned her pen. ‘So you’ll be wondering what a six-foot Scot, of thirty years of age, is doing in your nice safe hotel. The man should be marching with a rifle in his hand, isn’t that so, Eleanor?’
‘We all have our reasons for what we do, whether they be public knowledge or utterly secret.’
He held up his right hand. ‘This has all the dexterity of a crab’s claw. The bus I was travelling in, when I was ten years old, rolled off the road. It did such a good job of busting the ligaments that my right hand, though it’s strong, acts like a pincer – nothing more. Hence, the military rejected me and my crab-claw hand.’
‘You must be frustrated that you can’t join the fight.’
‘So you’d think, but when I received the letter telling me that I’d spend the war as a civilian I celebrated for twenty-four hours straight.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can I be confessional, Eleanor?’
‘If that’s what you wish.’
‘Well, I confess this fact: I’ve never done a useful thing in my adult life. I lived for pleasure. Let everyone else do the dull chores. If you work for a living you’re a fool.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Eleanor put the register back on its shelf.
‘It was my mantra. I told everyone I was a writer. In truth, I wrote very little. All my creativity went into finding routes to pleasure.’
‘Alec Reed, Soho Square and Beyond.’
‘You’ve read my one and only novel? You belong to a tiny elite, Eleanor.’
‘And it is an extraordinary book. You are a very talented writer.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘Not at all. I’m not one to flatter for no valid reason.’
He picked up his suitcase. ‘A production company hired me to write a script for a patriotic film. One that shows neutral nations how life is lived under siege here in Britain.’
‘Then it’s a laudable film to make.’
‘I wrote the script. And I hated it. Hated it with a passion. And I resented being forced to work the nine to five. Then I happened to be discussing its production with my colleagues in a café that, as bad luck would have it, took a direct hit from a bomb. Everyone was killed but me. It’s where I got the . . .’ He touched the eyepatch. ‘But I’m told it will heal.’ He shrugged. ‘As there is a shortage of directors I’ve now been given the job of directing the film I scripted.’
‘Fate is a contrary mistress, Alec.’
‘Indeed.’
Eleanor regarded the tall man with that black eyepatch, which seemed to concentrate the force of his other eye – as if it peered into her soul. He continued staring at her.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.
‘I just wanted to add that I’m happy to be here. And that I’m going to try my utmost to make this a good film. Maybe even a great film. If This Midnight Realm can encourage neutral nations to stop supplying the Nazi war machine it may shorten the war. And if my film helps shorten it by even one hour then I will have succeeded.’
‘And all your past sins will be wiped from your soul?’
‘You may think I’m ridiculous, Eleanor, but until a few days ago I was an idler. A heart stealer. Overfond of the bottle. And in other people’s eyes, an infuriating wretch.’
‘Then this is your opportunity to prove yourself. Gen
uinely, I do admire your change of heart.’ She plucked a key from the wall cabinet. ‘Follow me.’ Eleanor climbed the stairs. ‘Welcome to the Leviathan. Breakfast is served between seven thirty and eight. Dinner is seven prompt. If you hear the air-raid siren take shelter in the cellar. The entrance is next to the reception desk. And I do understand that this film is important to you. If I can help, in any shape or form, then my door will always be open to you.’
Eleanor continued to the next floor. Alec followed. He’d confessed to her; would there be a time when she confessed her secrets to him? And she wondered if he watched the shape of her figure with interest as she led him to his room.
Three
Beth, Sally and Eleanor climbed the stone steps that clung to the almost vertical hillside.
‘Great exercise for the calf muscles.’ Eleanor breathed hard. ‘And what man doesn’t like a firm calf muscle in a woman?’
Sally panted. ‘Phew, there must be a hundred steps at least.’
‘To be precise, one hundred and ninety-nine.’
Beth paused where the steps had been punctuated by a short level section before the next flight started. Although the cold pierced her clothes, the sun had driven away the last of the mist. She jotted a sentence in her notebook. These amazing steps cried out for a dramatic scene in the film. Perhaps where the character played by Sally rushes to tell her family she is to be married.
Eleanor indicated the level section of stone slabs. ‘In days gone by, pall bearers would carry coffins up to the graveyard on the cliff top. These breaks in the steps allowed them to get their breath back. Ye Gods, they’d have needed it. That fragrant scent of burning wood you can smell comes from the sheds down there. That’s where they cure herrings and turn them into kippers. Ready for the final push to the summit?’
Eleanor led them upwards. To Beth, it felt as if they were flying free over Whitby. The roofs below formed patches of different shades of red from the earthenware tiles that covered them. The narrow streets were swarming with people. She glimpsed a postman. Fishermen headed off to their boats. Women carried bundles, baskets, or pulled along children who were late for school. Mixed into the stew of men and women were soldiers in their characteristic pale-brown uniforms.
